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Trials of the Wolfeater: Battle at White Fort, July 1014
The World July 14th, 1014 My station leaves little room for reflection these days, but should I not indulge my journal I feel my sanity will be lost from me. Word has reached my ear that Arn is in utter chaos. My old friend, Nex Belain, seems to have joined forces with a prophetess (Unquala, should the reports from Garradir Browhest prove infallible) and begun a civil upheaval of monstrous proportions. Typical Nex. Once my business is finished here, I will take personal leave from Darkmoon matters for a time and see to this matter.'' Or rather, perhaps another will warrant more immediate care. The Hand of Men, so they are called, has declared an act of war against the Odenian Church. I know not their intent, but three of the seven bishops have already been captured and Halia Mortes is slowly being starved out. Soon, they will march on the city and attempt to overthrow the government. Greyne Mobilis rallies the Hand of Men, though the true mastermind here is surely not him. Several Darkmoon spies have already infiltrated their number and soon the truth will be revealed. Soon I will go before the Elves and find out whether or not my suspicions are sound. I would like to think I am prepared for the Elven King. I would like to think my troops are prepared for war. I would like, I would like… ''-Sinthaster'' ……… Part 1: The Messenger “Captain, a messenger has arrived,” Deagro said to me, his voice unwavering at the sight of my nightly escapades with a female soldier. “Quaint, why would the Elves send a messenger while still ignoring my demands for additional troops? Audacious lot, aren’t they?” I meant every word; though I was fluent in Elvish and had many dealings with the Fair Folk, I judged them no different than Men. “Sir, it is no Elven messenger. ‘Tis an orc.” I turned, curious at the state of affairs that allowed an orc to be so bold as to consider itself a ‘messenger’. I dismissed my evening’s distraction, Floella, and dressed myself. “Very well, I shall hear it out,” I sighed, pulling my belt tight around my waist. “Ready my weapons. I scarce think an orc will have the common decency to keep his head away from my sword for long.” The camp was hushed in stasis as the orcish brute stood alone, surrounded by soldiers and mercenaries who would kindly put an end to him. Still, he was stoic enough to maintain composure as I arrived. Though my sword hang sheathed at my side, my hand hovered in anticipation of foul play. “I daresay I never ventured believe an orc would instigate parlay,” I said. “You must know the common tongue then, yes?” The beast was large for an orc, standing taller than myself and muscle-bound to a degree of revulsion. I could tell he warranted office with his fellow orc, his rank was clearly earned. To him, I must have seemed a frail thing. He was unabashed with his displeasure at my height and size; I was, after all, his adversary. “I bring word from our captain, Frogock,” He grunted. “He respects your prowess and wishes to find an alternative to pointless bloodshed.” “An orc wishes an alternative to bloodshed?” I said. “Surely this is the Godswalk or I have lost my mind.” The orc snarled, “There are other paths we must pursue, and we need the flesh and metal to achieve them.” “Then speak, you horrible, wretched puss-pulsing pustule.” “Surrender Darshia Whitefang and Frogock will withdraw from these woods.” Interesting. I shifted, admittedly confused with his terms. He was surprised when Húleth strode forward, her anger flaring at the presence of an orc in her forest. “Am man theled?” Why? The orc smiled a disgusting grimace before replying, “Ú-bedin edhellen.” I don’t speak Elvish. Húleth fumed, “How dare you speak my tongue at me, pe-channas! I should smite you where you stand.” “Húleth,” I said, slowing her with an outstretched arm. “Save your speech for company fairer. I shall handle this mongering creature.” The orc was resolute, studying the anger of the Elven warrior. “Now,” I resumed, “What is your interest in Darshia?” “He must not be allowed to take the throne of the human lands to the north. Surrender him now and no further harm will come to you or your grunts.” I laughed, “Oh yes, the veritable bliss of orcish hospitality. I think not. Darshia remains, Frogock will die. Tell him he is a foolish leader to think such an arrangement could have been made.” “The barter was not his idea, Darkmoon, he only carries out the law. We answer to a higher authority, and soon, so shall you.” “And this higher power would be?” The orc reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bronze medallion. He tossed it to me; I brought it close and studied its tarnished face. Three serpents, coiled sensually about one another, devouring the tails of their siblings. “It would be very unwise of you to doubt our power, Wolfeater.” Then I recalled that which was spoken to me several years ago, within the confines of a dark forest and under gaze of a black, frostbitten sky; “Second, from the East, a power shall rise. It shall not be contested, only slowed, as the Godswalk manifests in serpentine flesh. Chaos shall be sewn; blood will be spilled. Allies strange shall be rallied, alliances formed. Only under the Whitefang shall these alliances hold.” “Tell me, beast,” I said. “By what name does your Serpent Mother answer?” I could tell he knew that I ''knew. “Kathotar.” In a stroke blessed by the speed of the Seven, I drew my blade and brought it clean through the neck of the orcish messenger, his face only alarmed once his arteries were severed. A dull thud, followed by the crumple of his body, sent my men cold. I called for Aurilus, his ears keen to my heed. He appeared before me, his nerve indifferent from the carcass nearby. “Yes, Wolfeater?” “Ride out to the Eastern front and make ready a path for our soldiers to march. No longer do we hold; we bring the fight to Frogock. Our time is fleeting, Seven give you speed.” Without a word he departed. I valued his services, and though his silence was oft an annoyance for me, it too had its uses. Never was an order questioned, merely followed; never was a secret spilled, only kept. I feared what was to come. I knew all too well that Kathotar was a guise, a name invented by the form with which Ruukina, the Goddess of Chaos, now took. An alliance could be reached, one marred by fear and precarious diplomacy, between her orcs and the Free Races. This could not happen so long as Frogock lived, however. The orc chieftain would be dead by fortnight’s end, or else all would crumble to chaos. ……… Part 2: Lord of the High Elves It was not often I invoked Húrin’s Gate. It was a simple cantrip, a spell used to conjure the Darkmoon symbol upon the face of an object, in this case my shield. It was a glistening, white magic that shone brilliantly, though its use beyond spreading light and invoking fear was limited. It could be used only by experienced Darkmoon, and the process of learning the cantrip required years of study and practice. These were not the days of old, where magic was bountiful and easy to flow, after all. For those who recognized the authority of our righteous Order, the symbol could not be challenged; it allowed the user admittance to any location: treasuries, private meetings, and in this case, the Silver Hall of the High Elves. So I stood, a lone human, in the most sacred glen of Elven kind. “Speak, Darkmoon,” King Miralath said. He sat in his throne of white vine; he was spectacularly beautiful, his crown adorned with sparkling white crystals that evoked the endless awe of stars. He was alone in the chamber, no guards to be seen, and the Silver Lady absent from her throne beside him. I was grateful. I do not think my mortal heart could bare the visage of her eternal splendor. “We move against Frogock on the morrow,” I said. “This war of attrition shall be brought to a swift close, should your aid be given further.” “We have supplied archers, acute in their vision and profound in their strength, to the cause. Darshia, as well, fights alongside you. Is it not enough we risk the lives of our kin and our treasure? We too battle the orcs, the might of our walls often challenged by the beasts. We children of the stars are not so plentiful as you Men. What more do you ask?” I could feel his aura. Few places in Lancerus still held the mark of magic. This was one such chamber, the ivory pillars seemingly containing a palpable taste of the arcane that created them. It weighed on me. “Your grace,” I began, trepidation slowing my speech, “I ask a blessing.” The Elven king smiled, “What blessing could I bestow upon a Darkmoon?” He was not hiding his condescending tone. Though the Elves still recognized Húrin’s Gate and the Darkmoon authority, that did not mean they had to hide their distaste for its application. “I am aware of your Guardian.” The King’s face twisted in surprise and almost anger, the light of the stars in his eyes turning to embers. He said nothing, only waiting. After a beat, I resumed, “Your glen is watched, your grace, by a god.” “You know nothing, Darkling.” “Your secret is safe with me, my lord Miralath, but it is known to me. ''Only me. No soldier in my employ, no Darkmoon, no friend in my company here or elsewhere knows of him.” He scowled. This was perhaps not the best move to have made. He could kill me with so little as a flinch, and I knew it. I was sweating under my clothes, my human stink sure to enrage him further. “If you are so bold,” he said, “as to inquire of our Protector, then surely you must be of stout heart.” He leered at me; I’m sure he could feel the fear beneath my skin. He stood from his seat of power and descended to me. I could not see his hands beneath his robes, and it troubled my reflex. I fought not to reach for my sword. In a manner of speaking, I am no meager opponent in a sword fight. My speed and precision are honed to a degree of aptitude fitting a member of my rank. To the High Elven King? I must have seemed a sloth stricken by idiocy. He pounced at me with speed unrivaled. My sword was only half-drawn by the time his fingers clenched my throat and his sinuous blade threatened my heart with its mithril edge. He was as a white falcon; terrifying and beautiful to die by. By the gods, his grip would put any dwarf to shame! He held my throat for no more than several seconds, but to this day, I can still feel the lingering chill of his eternal grip upon my mortal neck. He threatened me with a gaze I had only seen once before; wolf-like, cold. At once I understood: he was willing to trust me, but should I betray him? He would hunt me forever. He released me, and I collapsed in a heap of human stench before him. “Yes,” he said, after what felt an eternity. “He is here. Hidden away, from Men and orc, our Protector rests. Were it not for him, Forgock’s initial attack would have surely overtaken us.” I was shocked. Frogock, to my knowledge, had only ever commanded near on a thousand orcs, and our constant warring against him made it difficult to replenish his numbers. Surely so meager a force could not challenge Lindala? “His forces were much more numerous before your coming,” Miralath spoke, seemingly sensing my thoughts. “Thirty thousand orcs marched through the forests of Linvale, burning and splintering the life-force of the woodland. They reached our city walls, though they did not attack straight away.” Thirty thousand, I thought. Not such a host of orcs has been seen since the White War. Miralath walked to the eastern edge of the chamber, gazing at the mountains that were named for gazing back. “Frogock stepped forward, demanding that we relinquish Darshia or face his black arrows. It was alarming in and of itself that the creature even knew of the existence of the Whitefang.” He paused, his eyes trailing to the city below. “I feared for my people. Should I relinquish Darshia, the true line of Kings in Gildor would be forever lost, and we would surely witness death during the Godswalk to come. Should I refuse? We would not survive the night.” He looked at me now, as if I reminded him of what had happened next. “Then from the forest,” he said, his voice filled with awe, “a great bellow resounded. A creature of light, wreathed in golden folds of fur and crowned silver antlers the size of ships, stepped forth from the shelter of mighty trees. With a roar that shook the sky he broke against the horde of black spears, their iron tips as nothing against the hide of our Protector. Upon seeing his charge, we too attacked. What was once a hopeless slaughter turned to victory, many of the orcs fleeing from the sight of our combined wrath. Our Protector, though seemingly invincible, was wounded during the siege. We harbored him here in our glen, a secret pool where which he recovers. Since that day, the orcs have struggled to muster a counter attack, though we too are crippled. This is why we sought your aid.” His eyes burned me, empowered by his own words. “The God of Life, Kalyar, now rests.” As I made to speak and recant my encounter with Sirfung in my youth, detailing the accounts of Ruukina to rise in the east, I held my tongue. I thought that, perhaps, I should choose not to detail everything ''that I know. “Allow me his blessing,” I said, my voice coarse from his grip, “Frogock is great in strength, but before the glory of Kalyar, he is as nothing.” “I am sorry, Darkmoon, but even Hurin’s Gate will not allow you access to our God.” “Then perhaps another?” I pleaded. The hall became filled with a swelling light, and a sound of soothing water seemed to ebb from the floor beneath us. The voice of the Silver Lady echoed forth, her ethereal speech enough to weaken my soul. “You are brave, Darkmoon, though troubled in your heart. Your cause is clouded by uncertainty and regret; Kalyar’s blessing would be lost on you. Still, there is another who knows his destiny true; whose might could hold the eternal light.” Miralath and I both knew of whom she spoke, and with merely a nod of approval, he departed to summon Darshia to the sacred glen. ……… Part 3: The White Fort Rises Many days passed before we marched towards the Gazing Mountains. Aurilus and Calicana led our force, some 2,000 strong, while I rode amongst the rear of the group. Nearby, Húleth and her soldiers sauntered, as did Darshia (whose silence unnerved me) and a young soldier named Tane Brecos. He was rather androgynous, a flummoxing mix of feminine traits obscured by a harsh demeanor. He had proven useful on many occasions, his dexterity with his weapons felling many a foe. Still, he troubled me. He thought I was unwary of the gazes he would cast my way, but without the time nor the reasonable warrant, I could not investigate him further. “Sinthaster,” called Aurilus, running backwards along the ranks to catch my attention. I could not fathom his reason for abandoning his horse to Calicana, but I found it best not to question his antics. His silence could oft turn to obstinacy with my “pestering”. “Speak, Aurilus,” I said, noting the anxiety in his eyes. “We have reached the fort, my advance scouts report the orcs are moving quickly towards us.” “And Frogock?” I said, holding my breath. “He leads them.” ''At last, I thought. Good fortune brings the mighty chieftain to the field of battle. This time, he shall not escape us. We made haste for the White Fort, a crumbled structure of Human and Elven design. It had been abandoned many centuries ago after the threat of evil from the East had dissipated. Under menace of this new enemy, it saw service once more. The soldiers, instilled with unseen fervor, worked beyond their normal thresholds. They could taste the end of this year-long struggle, and the promise of freedom gave them speed. Barricades were erected, engines of war constructed, weapons repaired and sharpened. It would be a lie to say I was not somewhat aroused by the coming storm. I had little intention of waiting the orcish horde out. Thankfully, they did not keep us long. It was dusk when my scouts brought word of the impending attack. Orcs were known for their immense distaste of the sun, and thus had waited the fall of coming dark to press their attack. They believed their superior numbers to be enough to quell us. They would be wrong. I spoke to Aurilus and Darshia as we ascended the battlements of the White Fort, ensuring they understood the intricacies of my plan of attack. They were integral to the success of this battle. “Time is paramount. We risk all on this night,” I said. The two stood in stoic silence. They were the best warriors in my employ, though what I would ask of them now was well above the calling of even the greatest soldiers in the land. “Frogock will march on the field this night. We will lure him with Darshia, and strike.” Darshia moved nary a muscle, though his eyes seemed to gleam all the brighter. “One of you will die,” I spoke again. “Do not let it be you.” ……… Part 4: The Rock Frogock. What a sight he was. I knew, the instant his silhouette marred the moonglow, that he was the chieftain of this belligerent mass of orcish soldiers. Carving swaths through my troops like wheat before the scythe, he marched unchallenged. He was colossal, and indeed, not a standard orc. Whether he was of a superior breed of orc (Orog) or simply half-ogre (Ogrillon), I knew not for sure. Of what I could gather, it was clear that the monster stood at least eight feet tall and swung his poleaxe of tree-like proportions with ease. Still, I had seen larger. Though I loathed standing away from the field, stationed high above on my parapet to watch the battle, I had no choice. I had to remain, like a solemn gargoyle, to bark orders at my captains. Our main force met with the orcish bile in the valley, their crude weapons of war breaking against our stout shields. We held position, allowing our spears to create a wall of orc carcass with which the enemy could not pass. This would stall their advance and allow my elite team to do their work. Though the orcs were vast in number, they lacked one thing that gave us the deciding edge: cavalry. Utilizing the Hammer and Anvil strategy, I allowed their forces to press up against ours before allowing two squadrons of horsemen in waiting to bellow forth from the trees, Darshia Whitefang leading them. My black speech is rusty, though I am sure I could fathom the curses of many of their kin at the sight of our horsemen. Then, Frogock the Rock took charge. He alone intercepted the northern charge and brought about the death of several horsemen before the cavalry division broke off. He pursued them, one upon the next, and either smashed them with his weapon or crunched their bodies and skulls inside of his massive, gorilla-like jaws. Our archers took aim but offered little aid. Frogock’s hide was as the mountain stone: thick and unyielding. Arrows, spears, the charge of a line of cavalry seemed to do little to slow the monster. “Aurilus!” I screamed. He stood nearby, firing arrows into the black abyss of orcs below. He turned to me, his face stern as always. I pointed towards Frogock, and without a moment’s hesitation Aurilus nocked a peculiar arrow. He let it fly towards the chieftain with nigh Elven accuracy. The arrow, upon making contact with the beast, exploded in a shower of purple sparks. The magic did not harm Frogock, but rather covered him in a bright, violet shimmer. He lit up like a beacon amongst the sea of orcish grunts. All could see him now: Me, my soldiers, Darshia, and the seven ballistae in waiting. The siege engines let loose their terrible ammunition. I had thought it impossible to avoid; Frogock was keen to disagree with me. His hulking frame was impossibly nimble, and with deft footwork he avoided the ballistae bolts that hurtled towards him. Seven were fired, all had missed, and now we had one very angry chieftain to contend with. He began to charge our rear, a squadron of heavily armored orcs behind him. If our flank fell, our siege engines would be lost, and we would be routed. “Aurilus, to me!” I barked, scurrying down the parapets to reunite with my soldiers. My descent was joined by Aurilus and the company I placed under his command, as well as Tane Brecos and Calicana. We stood ready at the ballistae line, a small outcrop of wall allowing for the seven war machines to rain hell upon our foes. The wall was guarded by a ramp up to a small gate. The gate was hastily constructed; we prepared for the breach. Frogock’s advance legion slammed against the gates and splintered the meager wooden barrier. Darshia, still upon his horse and seeing the onslaught, broke away from his soldiers and made straight for Frogock. Darshia and Frogock soon became swept away in a duel of divine might, leaving us to fend off the ballistae from Frogock’s personal guard. As unto a breach in the hull of a vessel, so did the orcs spout forth from without and into the fort. Aurilus made short work of the first with his few remaining arrows before relieving a fallen comrade of their weaponry and making unto the host with vicious intent. Tane rallied, Calicana and soldiers behind, driving the bulk of the force into the waiting arc of my silver blade. Not before we had removed the threat had Darshia laid waste to Frogock’s senses; though the chieftain was as a mountain before Darshia, the Whitefang was simply too fleet of foot. With dazzling flourish and unprecedented might, the would-be king slashed through Frogock’s thick armor-like hide and rendered his legs lame. As the beast crumpled, the ballistae now found him much easier to hit. And so they did. It was not long after the skewering of their general that the orcs fled in droves. Our archers continued to make short work of them as they escaped, their numbers dwindling into paltry sums before disappearing into the thick woods. So it was over, and the battle at White Fort had been won. Whether or not the Elves would now keep their word and relinquish Darshia, well, that was another matter entirely. ……… Previous Chapter Part 1 - Hordes of the Rock, Linvale, September 1013 Next Chapter Category:World Lore Category:Amarka